


Countdown

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Community: three weeks for dw, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Character of Color, POV Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-06
Updated: 2010-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're not soldiers anymore, but it doesn't change anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Обратный отсчет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592467) by [Heidel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidel/pseuds/Heidel)



> For [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lunesque**](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/), who was also kind enough to beta and help with the title, which is only fair since she started all these shenanigans with 'write me Clay/Roque.' She's compelling, you guys. BEWARE. This fic contains major spoilers for the movie.

Roque already knows the answer, but it's better to have it out in the open. "Are you going to sleep with her?"

"No." But the moment Clay says it, he looks up and catches Roque's stare. "Maybe," he relents.

Roque makes an obvious show of sharpening his blade.

~*~

The back of Roque's knees hit Clay's bed, and he drops to his ass, Clay's mouth never breaking away from his, the kiss insistent and rough like their quick jungle fucks. But they're back in the states now, and everything is different. Even this. Roque fists a hand into Clay's shirt and pulls until the buttons pop off and clatter to the floor. He didn't come here for this, but it's good to have this heat between them again instead of the anger, the fucking regret that's been eating Clay since Bolivia. The reminder of the exploding chopper, the shuttered look of horror on Clay's face, sours the kiss, sours everything. Roque turns his head and jerks Clay's shirt down to expose his shoulder, the skin overlaid with thin white scars.

"Did you have to sleep with her?" Roque asks as Clay's mouth slides to his throat.

"You sayin' you wouldn't?" Clay slips a hand beneath Roque's shirt and fans his fingers over Roque's ribs.

"Not sayin' anything." Roque drops his focus to Clay's pants; he can feel Clay's smirk against his skin.

"You don't have to." Clay slides over Roque, lets him ease down onto his back at his own pace before straddling his hips. "You say a lot with loaded silences."

Roque digs his fingers into Clay's hips. "Loaded guns, you mean." He imagines how Clay would react if he pulled one now, if he told him that he contacted Max and made a deal.

Clay grinds down as he rucks up Roque's shirt, and Roque wonders when they stopped being able to read each other—when they stopped being brothers in arms because Clay got too caught up, the way he is now, breath hitching, eyes closed. "Those, too."

"If I shove one in your mouth, will it get you to shut up?" The thing is, Roque's not joking; he thinks about sliding his combat knife out from beneath the pillow and dragging it up Clay's sternum to the hollow of his throat.

Clay stares down at him with a small, amused smile and cups Roque through his pants. "Better ways to do that, buddy."

Roque clamps a hand around the back of Clay's skull and guides that mouth to his crotch. "Yeah. Get to it."

Clay plants his hands on either side of Roque's hip and resists, not enough to be a definitive no but enough to establish the give and take that they're supposed to have. When Roque eases his grip, smoothing his thumb up the column of Clay's throat, Clay unbuckles Roque's belt and makes quick work of the button and zip.

His mouth is hot and slick, and Roque fists a hand into the thick mass of Clay's hair, no more regulation style for them; they're not soldiers anymore. The thought fizzles through Roque and rides on the sweet-sharp pleasure of Clay's mouth on his cock, the slide rough and hurried like they're in Bosnia, Kosovo, anywhere but here. Roque wants to get his fingers good and tangled in Clay's hair and fuck his mouth until he chokes, take his time, stop fighting, but the fight's never going to leave the tense line of Clay's shoulders. Roque grips them, fingers digging into the joints as Clay sucks him down; he wants this to last, but he's already lost, his balls tightening and pleasure spooling out in a fast, semi-satisfying wave that leaves him more raw than sated.

He pushes Clay onto his back and frees his cock, dropping his mouth to bite hard at a nipple as he jacks Clay like they're in Sri Lanka or Chechnya. It's quick, and it doesn't change one fucking thing.

After it's done, they lay in bed beside each other, Clay face down, an arm draped across Roque's waist, Roque on his back, his arms tucked under his head as he stares at the ceiling, his throat thick with the bitter taste of Clay's come.

"You're overthinkin', Roque," Clay murmurs and turns his head, nails rasping across Roque's stomach. "This is how we get our life back. You gotta trust me."

_I trusted you with everything_, Roque doesn't say. It doesn't matter anyway. He grunts like he's half asleep, and Clay doesn't call his bluff, just rubs his mouth over Roque's elbow like nothing's changed and eventually falls asleep. Roque never does. He keeps watch until dawn.


End file.
